Elysium
by divine-serenityJenevieve
Summary: Fall 2000 and a disillusioned Natalie Bolsam works the late night shift of one of AC’s seediest bars, when a tall dark stranger offers her the opportunity to find solace in another. A 'what if Natalie and John had met before either came to Llanview' piec


_**Elysium**_

By Jenevieve

**Summary:** Fall 2000 and a disillusioned Natalie Bolsam works the late night shift of one of AC's seediest bars, when a tall dark stranger offers her the opportunity to find solace in another.

**Rating:** PG-13 for sexual situations and language

**Disclaimer:** I sadly do not own any of the characters. They are all the wonderful creations of Agnes Nixon and the writers of _One Life to Live_, and I am only taking advantage of my love of the show to play with them for a little while.

**A/N: **What if Natalie and John had met before either came to Llanview? I wrote this story to play with that question and as a challenge to create something different from what I typically do; something grittier with very little dialogue. I hope I achieved something entertaining. The title of this story refers to the Elysian Fields of Greek myth, a place of ideal happiness. Opening poem is "X" by Michael Easton.

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_She has been stripped_

_Pawed at_

_Opened and drained._

_Hallowed and misguided now_

_Like one of the rest._

_Long legs and low soul_

_For someone who could not swim,_

_She found her maximum depth_

_In this place._

---

It was late or early depending on where you stood. Just one of those long ambiguous hours between night and day break, when harsh neon bulbs glare off Formica counter tops in 24 hour diners. The period of time when the children of the night are crawling back into bed and the only souls awake are those who fear sleep or at least are trying to avoid it, drinking until they are certain their demons won't come when they finally close their eyes. Some called it the graveyard shift. She called it Eden.

When the door opened her head lifted from the tap, a habit honed after being held up for the fifth time nearly a week ago. Not that the cops had done anything, nor had she really expected them too. When you worked in a dive like this on the backside of the Boardwalk you were asking for it really. Just a gun and a request; hand over the money and that was that. No point in getting all worked up; things like that well they just happen. But all the same she was aware of the new presence as she filled the glass in her hand.

Handing the beer to biker at the end of the bar, she carefully studied the man who moved towards her through the thick fog of cigarettes and the soft droning of the same nondescript rock ballad crooning from the jukebox in the corner of the room. How many times tonight along had she heard that damn song? Tomorrow, she swore. Tomorrow she'd pull out the cord on that thing once and for all.

She could tell he was a cop the moment he dropped down onto the bar stool before her. He wasn't in uniform and didn't carry himself with the arrogant swagger that so many of the beat cops did, strutting up and down the Boardwalk like they owned the place, but he had the weathered look just the same. Probably a detective of some sort, maybe Vice. God how she hated beat cops. Pigs. Real pig-cops those bastards were, no compassion, no understanding for anyone outside of themselves. Black and white that was the problem with cops that was all they ever saw. And if they weren't honest believers then they were corrupt or at least drunk on the small bit of power that gold badge of theirs seem to give them. At least he wasn't a beat cop. She hated serving beat cops.

He held up a single finger; no words just a gesture. It meant he didn't care what bottled beer she gave him so long as it was cold, not that he had a lot of choice in a place like this. If you wanted a selection you went to O'Malley's two streets up or The Brass Key. Here your choices were cheap piss or hard liquor, but you had the advantage of anonymity and not being hassled unless of course you started it.

She snapped the top off with the bottle cap screwed into the side of the bar and slid the beer across the scared face of the wood that separated them. He thanked her with the slightest nod of his head, his eyes holding hers even as he tipped his head back and took a long swing. His face was tired, drawn but his eyes were deep. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed before slamming the bottle back to the counter empty and raised another finger.

"How 'bout something stronger," she smiled ever so slightly. A smile that was the least she could give him after a performance like that.

Again he just nodded his blue eyes a piercing sight in the gloom of the bar. There was something in them, swimming just beneath the surface. Something intoxicating and frightening all at the same time, and she felt something deep inside of her stir. She poured him a tall one of Jack and slid it back. Again his eyes held hers as he raised the glass to his lips and began to drink. Pain. Pain and loneliness in those eyes. But then again who wasn't hurting and alone in a place like Atlantic City. A city of gamblers, drunks, and whores, where someone like her was nothing more than trailer trash done up in a little lipstick and rouge.

"Long night?" His voice was a deep robust sound, thick like velvet and she found herself wondering what it would feel like to have that voice whispering in her ear.

"Same as always," she replied as she began to dry off some glasses to her left. A heart beat passed, maybe two before she lifted her eyes back to his face. Again those eyes bore into her, his fingers moving upward to run through the thick long strands of his dark brown hair. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and as he moved it back to the glass her eyes traced the full curve of his lips edged with the scruff of his goatee. "You look like you've had a rough one."

"Something like that," he replied staring into his glass. He could feel her still watching him even as his mind shifted to darker things.

"Don't think I've ever seen you in here before." A simple statement of fact, leaving him the option of retreating into his glass or continuing the conversation.

"Hey bab-ee!" A rough slurring voice interrupted before the man could answer as three men approached the bar. She recognized the guy who spoke and easily side-stepped the hand reaching for her ass.

She counted to ten silently to herself before replying, "What do you want, Rick?"

"See boys, told you she'd remember me." He leered at her over the counter laying the pool stick he held in his right hand across the bar trapping her between the stick and his boys. He reached forward and began to stroke the bare skin of her upper arm to which she immediately pulled back with visible disgust. "Tell 'em how good I am to you, bab-ee. How good I treat you."

His buddies hooted and hollered at the innuendoes but she just rolled her eyes. "Look Rick are you drinking or am I calling you a cab?"

"How 'bout you come out from behind that bar and go a round with us. I hear you're pretty good with the pole if you know what I mean?" He rubbed his hand up and down his pool stick before laughing at his own joke.

"Sorry I'm working," she shrugged moving deeper behind the bar but Rick jumped it with ease, pushing her back against his buddies.

"Then how a 'bout a kiss?"

"How about you get your hands off of me?" She spit the words at him with such venom, her right hand groping for the bottle of mace she's been hiding under the bar. Fuck the job! She was so sick of men acting like she was just another piece of ass to do with as they wanted.

"Come on firecracker." He's fetid breath burned with whiskey and he pulled her against him.

"If you want a lap dance go to the Pussycat Club!" She shoved him hard but he didn't budge so she slapped him hard across the face.

"You bitch, you'll pay for that!"

---

He wasn't sure how he'd ended up at the bar; what strange force had led him down one alley and into another. All he knew was he didn't want to go home, he couldn't, and one dive was as good as the next. And this one, well it was the last place anyone would look for him in.

She'd caught his eye the moment he'd entered the place, a bright spot among the swirling eddies of smoke that seemed to hang low. She was pretty, not by AC standards per say, a curvy slender frame evident despite the oversized black t-shirt she wore. Not the exotic sort of pretty of a runway model, nor the plastic beauty of the casino room bunnies, but rather a natural realistic beauty, and he was willing to bet she was the kind of girl who could light up a room when she smiled. But it was the fire of her red hair that caught his attention, a fire reflected in the cool gaze she bestowed on him as he dropped down on a bar stool before her.

She was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen though something in her face made him even question that. She had spunk he could tell, the fire in her eyes hinted at that alone. She was no pushover, no easy sell, but there was something else, something darker, and his intuition told him this was a girl who had already lived quite a long life. And to be working in a place like this, well he was betting she wasn't exactly a straight arrow. But he wasn't on duty and even if he was he was pretty sure she would rip him a new one if he tried anything.

She slid the bottle across the bar to him without a word, her eyes never leaving his even as he downed it in one shot.

"How 'bout something stronger," she smiled ever so slightly.

Just a hint, the slightest up turn of her lips and he knew he was right. A full smile from her could break through the gloom even in a place like this. He watched her quietly, shyly almost as she poured the Jack, sliding it back towards him, and he wished she would smile.

"Long night?"

"Same as always." Her voice was casual but he could sense the exhaustion in her, the defeat, and he took comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one feeling low. "You look like you've had a rough one."

"Something like that." He gazed down at his glass, his demons starting to creep in.

If she noticed the cloud that came over him she doesn't let on. "Don't think I've ever seen you in here before."

And then they were interrupted by a group of typical AC scum, the kind he dealt with day in and day out. The kind whose memory have led him down the dark alley tonight into this very bar and now were interrupting perhaps the first civil unobtrusive conversation he'd had in the last few days. The last few days. Again he felt the demons pulling at him, the pain, the blood, her lifeless face…next thing he knew the guys were behind the bar pushing this young woman around, this bit of brightness that had already been tarnished enough. And without thinking he was suddenly moving, and the world slowed down to allow him to catch up. Fists, arms, and legs. A blur of movement, of violence, and then it's over, and Rick and his friends are leaving, limping and bleeding.

She blinks up at him from behind the bar, her eyes wide betraying just how scared she was even as she tells him she's alright and shrugs off his hand. But he persists and she lets him help her up. Her lower lip is bleeding where one of them struck her but she got even and he's going to be pissing blood for a few days. She did good. The kid definitely has fight in her.

He helps her around the side of the bar and onto a stool. The rest of the place is empty, cleared out by the fight, and reluctantly she allows him to examine her face. She's surprised by the smoothness of his palm, of his fingers, as he cups her chin turning her face so he can get a better look at the cut. For some reason she expected them to be rough, not warm and soft. He dabs at her lip with a handkerchief from his pocket and she feels her heart speed up. How long has it been since any man let alone a stranger fascinated her to such confusion before? Too long. She watches his eyes as he tends to her cut, soft and tired yet hard and hurting; such complexity of contradictions. He shifts his position in the musty bar light and she notices his hands are bleeding, his knuckles torn open on a tooth or two, and soon the doctoring becomes a two way street as she breaks out the First Aid kit and they start to talk.

At first its little things as gauze is cut and bandages attached: a mutual hatred of the less than desirable of AC's general population, the city, where they grew up, and things they've seen or missed around town. She grabs a fresh bottle of Jack as she puts away the First Aid kit and locks the front door; she's done for the night and so is the bar. She pulls up a stool beside him, pours two glasses and they move onto her endless string of jobs, her crappy childhood, and how long he's been a cop. She presses him about why he became one (and she takes pleasure in the small unvoiced victory that she was right; he joined because his father was one), and as they move onto bottle number two she lets slip her feelings on his occupation. He calls her on it as she pours him another glass, getting her to fess up to a number of run-ins with the ACPD that were anything but innocent, and actually finds himself laughing out loud as she describes some of her more nefarious schemes. She laughs too, her hair dancing about her shoulder like fire, her smile drawing him in deeper. He's no barer of souls, a man of few words, but he listens and he laughs and the comfortability is more than enough to keep her tongue wagging.

The clock strikes 3 a.m. but they continue to sit and drink. Halfway through bottle two they're into the heavier stuff. She starts telling him about her messed up relationships, about her current boyfriend Seth who keeps gambling away their rent money, who's nothing more than a hustler, a conman and yet she plays right along with him, because she's so tired of being alone, so tired of feeling empty. The liquor makes her daring now and she confesses how sex has become an empty escape, a way for her to feel something even if it's to pretend she's anyone but who she is, a way to get away by closing her eyes and dreaming she's under the stars on some rooftop making love to a poet, a jazz master, her hero. She ignores the soft vibration in her pocket when Seth calls; a request for another late night booty call (not that the sex is bad) or maybe to play decoy on yet another 40-something upper middle class man at the Black Jack table; another banker or trader from Greenwich or Stanford whose wife can't possibly appreciate him like she could. She ignores it all because confessing her sins to this stranger makes her feel more alive than she has in years. She isn't proud of any of it and he can feel her pain radiating from her eyes, her voice. She's slept with married men. He can tell without her saying the words, and yet he's amazed just the same by the candor and trust she offers him with each secret she divulges, and he can't help touching her hand.

They're close to the end of the second bottle now, both feeling warm and heady. Little things suddenly seem very important and the gravity of the more severe seem laughable. So this is why her mother drinks.

She been rambling for awhile now, or so she fears and with a brush of her hand she tries to draw him out. It's a difficult task but he finally gives up a bit. There's a fiancée, a school teacher, and she feels her heart drop as he describes this amazing woman. She envies her, envies the image in her mind of this angel, this saint who he describes. Does she know how lucky she is? Does she appreciate this man as she should? If she did why would he be sitting her with her drinking…and suddenly she feels the stir of attraction, of excitement again. Screw the saint! He's not married to her yet and where the hell is she anyway? And yet for the first time she finds herself feeling guilty for entertaining such thoughts.

Pool? A game of pool that's what he suggests as he reaches over the top of the bar and retrieves two beers. A buck a ball. She makes no attempt to stop him and stumbles after him towards the table. They drink and shoot, one game, two games. Game three and she can feel the sun growing stronger still somewhere beneath the horizon, but she makes no move to hurry. She feels safe, at ease, and the smiles she graces him with are genuine. So they both continue to dance around the table, around each other, taking shots, taking sips, hands and arms brushing accidentally at first but soon with more intention, more purpose. He laughs and smiles and she's happy to see something warm thawing through the chill in his eyes. He's good, she'll give him that but she's better and for the third time in a row she runs the table on him. He just shakes his head and smiles.

She leans back against the table beside him and smiles, her hair falling across her face. Without hesitation he reaches out and tries to tuck it back behind her ear. Her eyes turn up to meet his and he freezes, her hair between his fingers, the back of his fingers resting against the side of her face. Silence permeates the room. They're standing close, very close, and she can see his chest rising up and down. Maybe it's all the booze but all he can smell is her like he's drown in her and yet she doesn't move, doesn't say a word. Instead she waits, waits for him to make the decision, after all he's the one with the fiancée.

His lips fold over hers hot and heavy, his hands holding the sides of her head, his fingers lost in her hair. Her arms move upward, wrapping around his neck as her fingers grip his hair tightly, her mouth opening to the crush of his lips. He tastes her, lifting her up and onto the empty pool table all at the same time, his body bending over on top of her as his lips press down harder against hers. Her lower lip is between his and he can taste the metallic saltiness as the cut on her lip reopens under the suction of his mouth. The skin of her stomach is warm and smooth beneath his fingers as she fumbles with the buttons of his shirt.

Suddenly he pulls back wincing as her fingers find the gauze patch and bandages that wrap the lower part of his rib cage. A question floats in her eyes but she thinks better of it, the pain in his eyes so raw as he hovers above her, his breath coming in short fast gulps. Reaching up she tenderly caresses the sides of his face drawing his mouth back to hers and the solace she's offering. He drinks her, his lips moving down along the curve of her neck, sucking, kissing, licking as he tries to wrap her up inside of him, tries to rekindle his own flame with the fire he feels in her. The hair of his goatee moves over her skin making her shiver as he whispers wordlessly into her ear.

When they finally made love it's as if the world had slowed his body and face moving above her in slow motion, each sensation more intense than the last. And for the first time since she can remember she does not close her eyes, does not dream of being anywhere but in the moment with this stranger. As she watches him, clings to him, the ceiling above seems to melt away and she can see the sun rising swollen and pink, the rough fabric of the pool table beneath her fading into grass as she finds her way to Elysium.

---

Years would pass before she would ever see him again, ever learn his name. John. Years before she would learn the truth about the fiancée he had spoke of or of the bandages that had covered his rib cage that night. Sometimes she wondered if he had simply used her that night to chase off the demons that haunted him, or if he remembered her at all. But in the years between their night in the bar and their unexpected reunion she preferred to believe he had chosen to be with her because of her, because he had recognized in her the same thing she'd seen in him: sanctuary, solace, Shangri-la.

Years later she would come to know the whole man, as once again he would walk into her bar in another town in another state asking for her by name, a name he had never been given back then but somehow knew now.

"You're Natalie?" He'd ask in the same rich alto that had made her heart race that night.

"Yeah why?" She'd smile, pretending she didn't recognize him, pretending for herself, for him, but mostly for her own fiancée who sat off behind her watching. Cris was a good man. A saint, like John's angel was.

"Well if I didn't have a reason before I got one now."

She saw the warmth in his eyes, in his smile and she knew he remembered.

_The End._

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© 2006

**_Special thanks to Dulce for being my wonderful beta, and Angela for her feedback_**

Ok well that's it… I hope you enjoyed it. Remember, all feedback is welcome of course! It's the only way I'll get any better so feel free to drop me a comment at divine. (Just be sure to say something about "fanfic" in the subject so I don't mistake it for spam! )


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